“What does it mean, Jennie?” he asked. “Your note is as mysterious as a Sphinx. Have I murdered somebody and forgotten it?”
“It is in relation to this,” she replied, holding out the bow. “It is claimed that this silk was stolen, and they suspect you of being implicated.”
“Who claims so? Who suspects me?” he cried, hotly.
“Mr. Leonard declares most positively that it is a piece of some silk that has just been stolen from him.”
“This is a strange story you tell me, Jennie,” he said, leaning his head reflectively on his hand. “You told Mr. Leonard that I gave you the silk?”
“I did not!” she broke out, impulsively. “I refused to tell him. I suffered torments when I heard this terrible story, heard doubts cast on you. I refused bitterly to answer him. I do not know what he thought. He did not seem to suspect you.”
“Who did, then?” asked her lover, looking intently into her eyes.
“It was his confidential clerk, Mr. Augustus Wilson. I have had a distressing interview with him. He accuses you openly of theft, and says that he has convincing proofs against you.”
“He lies, then,” cried John, indignantly. “I defy him to his proofs. Did he tell you what they were?”
“No. He promised to conceal or destroy them, if I wished.”